


we never go out of style

by demourer



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Based on a Taylor Swift Song, M/M, Peter Parker Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:28:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22754323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demourer/pseuds/demourer
Summary: The song plays softly on the background, with lights passing through outside the car, lighting up their dimmed hearts. Peter stares at his lover’s face, then, to the bruised and bloodied knuckles, gripping tight onto the steering wheel. The lyric goes like this: you got that James Dean daydream look in your eyes, and I got that red lips classic thing that you like,His gaze snaps up to the man beside him, and at a split second he knows: Peter watches his heart breaks.
Relationships: Quentin Beck/Peter Parker
Comments: 1
Kudos: 21





	we never go out of style

**Author's Note:**

> this work is inspired from dark's thread on twitter and i know that i have to make it into a fic. so here you go. i did change some things, because i had this on my draft for a long time but never actually finish it because i was so busy at that time and when dark made that thread, i knew it would fit my draft so i combined them and turned it into a fic. this wasn't beta'd so, i am sorry if there's grammatical errors... 
> 
> anyway follow me on twitter @/t0nykoo !!!

Life after Quentin Beck is, different.

Peter doesn’t even remember how everything happened in the first place, but he does remember the stolen looks behind books and the accidental (or maybe not accidental?) gazes that both of them shared in order to know what the other was doing which later ended up with red cheeks and stifled laugh when the other caught them red-handed. Then, those looks turned into a conversation full of flirting (which initiated by Quentin and not Peter, definitely _not_ Peter) and later, conversation turned into promises.

Promises of small things, such as a drive-in date. Or that was what MJ had said, but Peter himself refused to believe that it was a date. Because Quentin Beck doesn’t do _date_. And yet, Peter cannot stop feeling hopeful when one date turned into two and then three and it went on and on for almost months.

(If Peter has counted right, and he _always_ has, it’s almost seven months of going into casual dates. Dates filled with shy touches and the red of Peter’s lips – red and wet from his cherry slushy and Quentin’s sweet vanilla milkshake. Yet, he still refused to acknowledge the butterflies in his stomach every time Quentin Beck gave him the lopsided smile and kissed the back of Peter’s hand with his sticky lips.)

─

Quentin Beck is what Peter would call as James Dean.

He has the dark hair, a little bit longer on the back that the small part of his hair rests on his nape – slicked back. Sometimes it’s a little bit outdone that there’s a strand of hair hangs and curls stunningly on his forehead, giving him the bad-boy look. The _James Dean daydream_ look. He also has a bunch of girls and boys drooling over him, trailing behind him like love-sick dogs, desperate to be one of the people that tainted his list.

The song plays softly on the background, with lights passing through outside the car, lighting up their dimmed hearts. Peter stares at his lover’s (is he, though? Quentin never claimed himself as Peter’s lover yet here he is, crushing Peter’s heart before Peter himself could even touch his) face, then, to the bruised and bloodied knuckles, gripping tight onto the steering wheel. He pauses when the lyric goes: _you got that James Dean daydream look in your eyes, and I got that red lips classic thing that you like,_

And his mind drifts off, knuckles tight into a fist on his lap. He thinks about the heartaches he had revolving this man. The man that his friends told him not to meddle about and yet here he is. It continues: _you got that long hair, slicked back, white t-shirt, and I got that good girl faith and a tight little skirt, and when we go crashing down, we come back every time,_

His gaze snaps up to the man beside him, and at a split second he knows: Peter watches his heart breaks.

The air’s tense, Peter can feel it under his fingertips, on the back of his tongue, and how sometimes he himself is too scared to breathe properly. From the stiff lines on Quentin’s shoulder (which Peter winces internally because there is no way in heaven that _that_ is comfortable, even he already knows the answer from how he holds himself throughout the movie) he knows that the tension is the only real proof that he hadn’t made things up in his head.

“Why?” Peter asks out of blue.

At first, Quentin is silent. Honestly, Peter doesn’t expect any answer from him. He doesn’t expect him to say anything, because with that, then, they could leave all the tension behind and act as if this has never happened in the first place. Completely abandoned it, just like how Peter has always treated his feelings these couple of months. Thinking that maybe (just maybe) there’s a possibility that by leaving it untouched in the back of his head, it would somehow leave his conscious mind, _forever._

Intentionally, his hands tighten on the steering wheel – if he wants to make it dramatic like in those movies he watched one time with Peter, he could see his knuckles turned white from how tight his grip is. Feeling certain, Quentin takes a quick glance at him before he returns his focus to the main road, empty and scary, before finally answering. “I don’t know.”

There’s a scoff, mocking – Peter’s.

(Well, of course, there’s no doubt that it’s Peter’s.)

“You used me and left! You were gone for months, no text, no calls, then one day you showed up and snatched me like I’m just some... _things,_” Quentin winces at that. “Give me one reason, Beck. _Why?_”

“_I don’t know._” He snaps, unable to control his rage. And regretting it right after he sees Peter’s reaction: face scrunched up in annoyance with his lips in a pout. Despite the tense in the air and the apparent frustration in his face, Peter’s eyes still have the same twinkle in those brown starry-eyed, shining under the moonlight. 

“You _don’t_ know?”

Quentin snaps back to the reality he’s currently in. His grip on the steering wheel tightens – as if it could go any tighter. “What do you want me to say, then, Peter?”

“Well, definitely something reasonable.” Peter’s insides are hot with rage, teeth grinding into each other and his mind is a little hazy from the number of drinks he had. He doesn’t remember how many drinks he had from Harry’s party but it definitely more than eight, cause he lost counts after that.

“You know I hate Osborn, so much.”

“I know, Quentin! But why?” he snaps. “Why did you act like this? You think you’re doing me a favor by being the hero and picking me up from the party and oh, that little stunt you did back there? You think I will _thank_ you? You’re embarrassing me! So, please stop all these bullshit and—”

“I care about you!”

Peter has never been so mad in his life. He doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol running wild through his blood, making him braver than he used to. He wants to jump off the car or turn over the wheel so they would crash into a tree or fall off a cliff. Anything. He will do anything to get out of Beck’s cramped classic car, get out of the toxic air that has been choking him since he left Harry’s party.

“_You care about me?_ You care about me or you care about your fucking Stark Internship? Because,” he scoffs while shaking his head in disbelief, “we can all leave this behind and you can still have your internship at my dad’s company. _Cross my heart._” He says mockingly while crosses his heart.

Both of them know that’s a lie. Definitely, he will ask his dad to delete all of Quentin Beck’s profile and documents from the Stark Internship. Throw away all of his belongings and research. If he’s feeling vengeful, he might also ask his dad to block him from even entering the fucking building. Peter knows he’s being a little bit dramatic – well, blame his father then, he got it from him – but it’s not like he hates it.

“I don’t care about the Internship, Peter.” A pause. “You. I care about you.”

With rage poisoning his mind, the younger man almost tears his hair off, frustrated. “_This is—_you know what, stop this car. Right now. I’m calling my dad, or Happy, whichever picks up first. Stop the car, Beck.”

“You are drunk, I am not stopping the car nor do I leave you alone in this street, waiting for your goddamn driver,” Quentin mutters darkly, trying to keep his own rage at bay.

“Why are you doing this? _Stop the fucking car, Beck!_” The younger man trashes in his seat, latching onto Quentin and tugging at his arms harshly but the man doesn’t even budge. His jaw is set and his gaze stays on the road.

“No—”

He punches the side of Quentin’s arm, hard enough to make his face twitches with pain and grits his teeth in annoyance. Well, that’s what he gets for fucking with a _Stark._ “What the fuck is wrong with you? You threw me out right when you had the fucking chance and now you’re acting like this, what the fuck is wrong with you! Stop this car or I will jump right now. I swear to God, _I will_. I will do whatever to get away from you!”

“I love you, Peter!”

Peter falters, his fingers twitching, mouth open wide. But then, as if a wave just washes over him, waking him up from whatever daydream that drags him down, down and _down_. He looks at him with such pain that makes Quentin’s heart aches.

“No. No, you _don’t._” He frowns and shakes his head, not quite buying the reason that coming out of his mouth. He might be drunk but it doesn’t mean he’s dumb. “You said yourself that you don’t do relationship. You played with me, fucked me, _used_ me, you threw me out, you—you—you broke my fucking heart.”

Pain bleeds in his face as his shoulder sags forward, unaware of the air he has been holding the entire time. “I know and I am so sorry, I—I am sorry for whatever pain I caused you, but give me one more time to prove myself that I mean it. I mean every fucking word when I said that I do love you, Peter.”

(Peter almost believes it.)

For some moments, he spends his time staring at Quentin with wild and clear eyes, tears pooling inside of them, hoping that he really does mean it. But he knows better. His dad taught him better. MJ and Ned were right.

Quentin Beck is a heartbreaker and Peter is his revelation.

Although it hurts him to do it. Because he does, he does love Quentin.

And that’s why he has to let him go.

─

“I thought I made it clear that I—I do this, for... _fun_.” Quentin licks his lips, the word tastes weird now when he says it, like it ridicules him, offends him – when he says it in front of the starry-eyed boy. (Peter; the boy that elicits high giggles when he’s incredibly excited over something that his cheeks starting to turn as red as cherry, spreading down to his neck. And for the final, he adds: “I don’t do relationship, Peter.”

“So, this is it. You’re leaving me.” Peter wets his lips, holding back a shuddered breath.

The strawberry slushie is abandoned on his lap, his palms are wet from the condensation. Drops of water on the outside of the cold cup reminds him of his soon-to-be-wet cheeks. Peter doesn’t cry.

Peter will _not_ cry.

Not until he reaches home, of course. That was what his dad always said: to not show your vulnerable side to new people and that includes, crying. So, even if his heart is breaking, hurt so hard that he can taste it in the tip of his tongue, he has to hold it down.

“No, baby,”

“But you will, eventually,” Quentin watches his eyes water. “You’ll grow bored of me and look for someone else and—” Peter inhales, eyes clear with new knowledge, “no, y-you... you _are_ bored of me.”

The realization hits him. It reminds him of that one time where MJ and Ned poured a bucket of really really cold water over his head on his birthday party and then dumped him to the penthouse’s pool, with his dad’s worried face which later morphed into relief when he saw Peter submerged from the water.

But that was different. That was fun and for joke purposes and he was happy, unlike this, unlike whatever the _fuck_ is this. But he fact that this whatever-the-fuck-situation he’s in right now, makes his heart feels like tearing into pieces. He should’ve listen. Peter should’ve listen to his friends, to not fuck around with Quentin Beck. Because, Quentin Beck always breaks heart and hope, crushing them under his palm, watching it shatters near his feet and he won’t stop.

He breaks people’s hearts and now it’s his turn.

Peter watches his heart shatters on the palm of Quentin Beck.

─

(“Stay with me,”

Quentin grins, eyes twinkling. “Are you always this clingy when you’re tired?”

That earns him a playful shove on the shoulder before Peter settles himself, face buried into his chest, comfortable, home. Home before his mom left him, left his dad, left the Stark household. “Tomorrow’s Saturday, so, stay, _please._”

“Okay, baby, I’ll stay.”)

─

“Take me home,”

“Peter—”

“Please, just take me _home,_” he whispers, voice cracking at the end.

Home is not a cramped classic red Shelby Mustang – that he hates to admit but it starting to take a special spot inside his heart. Home is no longer the warm wandering hands and melting slushie, heated stares and breathy moans, with the movie playing on the background. Home is _definitely_ not a man with sharp smile and slicked-back hair, wearing a t-shirt and jeans on his daily basis.

Home _is_ a huge penthouse in New York; huge enough to fit many people at once, but not enough to fill the longing void inside the Starks’ chests. Home is the clinking of utensils from Aunt May’s cooking session and Star Wars binge-watching with Ned and random discussion about unsolved crimes with MJ. Home is Stark Tower, with his beloved, genius and patient and _strong_ dad, and the bots and JARVIS.

Home is here, with his family.

Home is _not_ Quentin Beck.


End file.
